


"The Woman"

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humor, Sherlock and Irene being gal pals and exchanging style tips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another pre-S2 fic featuring my take on Irene (i.e. not now-canon!Irene, rather an American Irene as per the stories). </p><p>Summary: Although it's known that Irene Adler once outsmarted Sherlock Holmes it's less common knowledge that she made him look like a total idiot on three other occasions. Sherlock would like to keep it that way (Pre-series "how Sherlock and Irene met" ficlet).</p><p>Sherlock and Irene "friendship" as opposed to shipping. Warning for heat induced cussing courtesy of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"The Woman"

Sherlock Holmes would come to tell John Watson quite readily, indeed almost proudly, how Irene Adler outsmarted him. There was a joy in it, a guilty pleasure he got from acknowledging his own ability to be stupid (or rather less brilliant than usual). It was also undeniable that he revelled in once more amazing John with the disclosure.

On the other hand, Sherlock Holmes never told John Watson of the three times Irene Adler simply embarrassed him and made him look like an absolute idiot. There was a reason for that as well - he had the sinking feeling John’s reaction would be the same as Irene’s: far too strong amusement at his expense.

**The first time**

Was in Florida, half way through the Hudson case. To call the weather roasting hot would have been inaccurate and far too dramatic because, naturally, the temperature was in actuality only around-

Fuck it.

Sherlock Holmes was officially so hot that he couldn’t even bring himself to be pedantic. He was hot, sticky and miserable and felt like he had been wrapped against his will in a woollen blanket then blasted full in the face with a hairdryer. He was, indeed, so fucking hot that he wasn’t even able to fucking deduce satisfactorily and that nagged even more at the man’s melting mind than the heat. He stood, beaten, in the afternoon sun of Florida in July ruining a beautiful shirt from Savile fucking Row with the veritable cascade of sweat that was pouring down his back.

America. There was no point to America. He officially drew this conclusion as he moved inside the doorway of a vast shopping centre feeling desperately disinclined to venture further into the building but made weak and vulnerable by what he knew lay in wait for him outdoors. The heat licked at his back like a whip every time the sliding doors opened and, sure enough, he was forced to wander inside in earnest or suffer a possible mental breakdown.

The only reason he had ventured to the mall was in order to use it as a make-shift study, somewhere to pace and propound. His hotel room had barely functioning air conditioning and paper thin walls that didn’t mask the unpleasant groans that emanated from the right hand wall and the yells of “Shut the FUCK UP” that boomed from the left (it wasn’t his fault if he hadn’t truly adjusted to the time-zone and preferred to think and pace at 2am local time). As Sherlock strode the length of the excessively gargantuan shopping centre he began to wonder how obvious it was to those around him that he wasn’t a local or indeed an American. He flattered himself that he didn’t look like a tourist at least, as emphasised by his lack of mouse ears and bum bag. Instead Sherlock came to the weary conclusion that he must have simply looked daunting, a tall, almost gaunt figure thanks to his having surely lost about a litre of water by now in sweat. A sickly sheen clung to his pale, pinkish face and his previously curly hair was now verging on frizzy and limp, stuck to his forehead in defeat. Still, the knowledge that he looked fairly terrifying made him feel less concerned about drawing looks as he muttered about the case in a half hearted manner.

A while later he was idly navigating a department store and gliding between the displays, ignoring and sliding by people spritzing perfume or offering free samples. Indeed, he had become stuck on such an auto-pilot, gliding about the store as his mind considered blood spatter once more that he didn’t consciously notice the fact that he had side-stepped the same figure once previously until the person spoke.

“I don’t know why,” Sherlock continued on his way but caught the words, “But I had you down as being a short guy.”

Instinctively the detective knew the comment was meant for him and sluggishly he turned on the spot. He was left facing an average height woman with, he supposed, a rather attractive symmetrical face with a small straight nose at its centre and a deviously pursed Cupid’s bow mouth. Her brown eyes were circled with rather lurid lilac and her lips were painted a coral colour that had been smudged recently (a fizzy drink most likely, the smudge was small and central so it had been a drink with a straw at least). Still, Sherlock supposed she fit in with the other summery and happy looking people walking by on a perpetual loop about him.

“Busy,” he said dismissively having made his study. The case – he tried to regain his focus by striding on a few steps and renewing his muttering. One hand reached into his trouser pocket for his phone only for the device to be wafted in front of his face by the stranger who, it transpired, had circled about him once more.

“Very clever,” he snatched the phone from her and gave it his full attention, “I’m hot and tired.”

“I’m Irene Adler,” she said pleasantly before giving a little tut, “Sherlock Holmes, making excuses. That’s surprising.”

“My name is at the top of the screen. Not impressive.”

“You’re a detective.”

“My website is my homepage on my phone, not impressive,” he repeated, although he allowed himself to look up at the woman once more. His own age. Irish American, he decided, dark brunette but the sun brought out the light freckles on the bridge of her nose and forehead under her long, severely cut bangs.

“I’m getting so bad with English accents you know,” Irene said a little sadly but thoughtfully, “I really need to visit again... Londoner, right?”

“Wow,” Sherlock muttered drily.

“I know, I’m bad... So maybe,” she slowed down with apparent consideration, “Kensington... I’m gonna say W8.”

He gave a low chuckle. There was something oddly quaint about being faced with a crude approximation with his abilities.

“My post code is also on my website. Look, if you’re a fan I can, I don’t know,” he pulled a face, “Sign something if you really want-“ Sherlock found his gaze panning down to study the rather large expense of freckled flesh between Irene’s neck and the top of her bust, on show thanks to the spaghetti strapped coral coloured dress she wore.

“Is it?” Irene cringed in faux embarrassment, “I only looked at your front page sweetie but it does look really nice.”

Sherlock finally paid her his full attention. He stood up straight feeling how his sweaty shirt refused to pull away from his skin as he did so.

““Nice”?”

“Yeah, only consulting detective etc etc, observation yadda yadda, whatever remains is blah blah, it’s all really,” she shrugged, smiling in apparent encouragement, “Nice. Nice idea.”

“Who the hell are you?”

It was at this stage that Sherlock truly came to notice that he had been led towards a food court. In spite of his urge to come to a standstill he felt how much cooler the area was as compared with the crowded department store he had previously been traipsing around. Likewise, he found himself accepting the ice cold soda the woman had bought him without question but held it in his hand as opposed to drank it, silently savouring the chill on his damp skin.

“I already said I’m Irene Adler,” she chastised, giving him a pleasant nod of greeting.

“Charmed. Do you happen to do anything “nice” then? Why would you recognise me otherwise? I’ve never heard of you, I’m sorry to say,” Sherlock said, his tone making it perfectly evident that he wasn’t at all sorry.

“I’m flattered.”

“And why are you flattered?”

“Because in my line of work no news is good news,” she said simply, taking another sip of soda and smudging her lipgloss further on the white plastic of the straw, “You see, where you made yourself a little website and advertised and blogged-”

“I don’t blog,” Sherlock said, his overheating causing his affront to sound rather more blatant than he had intended, “I have more dignity than to blog.”

Irene chose to ignore his tirade and spoke across him.

“Other people have pages on their websites about me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I’m supposed to guess what you are then? An assassin? A honey trap?”

“If I was, would it be working?” she ran her gaze slowly along the length of him, focusing for the longest while on the forest green shirt, “I guess not.”

Sherlock frowned but gave her a stare to encourage her to go on. She looked at his phone as she spoke.

“You outwit people; I just, I don’t know, encourage people to believe what they want to believe.”

“Do I get three guesses?” Sherlock said, snidely.

“I’m a thief,” she smiled. As her eyes snapped back to Sherlock’s she added coolly, “And I’d have thought that was damn obvious, considering.”

**The Second Time**

Had been in the McDonald’s at Westminster. Sherlock sat with an elbow propped on the very edge of the evidently hastily cleaned table, casting an eye about for his latest client who, if he were to indulge in a metaphor, was just as debatably squeaky clean as said table. He kept his eyes on the plate glass window as he sipped at his rapidly cooling cup of tea. Big Ben chimed mid day, audible even over the squealing of what seemed like an entire class of small children who were all equally fascinated with his coat and gloves (school half term holiday Sherlock knew and felt no better for his insight).

He reached a hand into his coat pocket and it came out empty. No doubt that that was the pocket he had placed the device in and so the detective instantly began to scan the rest of the diners lit up garishly under the bright white bulbs overhead. His glance was equally inspired by the low but audible voice that rang out a few tables down.

“You got a text,” his eyes landed on the slight woollen-coated figure of a woman perched atop one of the stools at the communal table in the centre of the restaurant. One of her designer shoe clad feet swung idly and a well manicured hand wagged the phone at him over her shoulder, “He decided to cancel. Risky business asking for help catching a bank robber when you’re a bank robber too I guess.”

Sherlock stood up to take the stool by the woman’s side instead. He considered her rather unreadable expression behind the tasteful, natural make up she wore– dusky brown eyes for autumn and a hint of rose blusher that did nothing to hide the red blush the cold had brought to her milky cheeks and nose. In spite of the wind her hair was as severe as he recalled it being in Florida, long and brown with that Cleopatra blunt fringe. She smiled sweetly at him then went back to her own cardboard clad drink (coffee, latte, Sherlock smelled on her breath).

“You sound quite familiar with my non-client.”

“He might have asked me to help him with some things.”

“Did he ask you to help with some things?” Sherlock muttered dully into his cup of tea. Irene beamed then, her leg wagging even more she reached out to shove him on the shoulder. Sherlock felt one of his eyebrows threaten to rise in hostility – he chose to look hard done by instead.

“I don’t rob banks,” her nose crinkled as she apparently considered the idea, “It’s so... well it’s loud and there’s the tendency for violence and the guns-“

“I’d have thought guns would have appealed.”

“Ha ha,” she tittered politely, “I get it, I’m American, we love guns. You’re not hot and tired today.”

“Well deduced,” Sherlock noted as he extricated his phone easily from her loose grasp and studied the screen to see the poorly worded and hastily typed apology on the screen. Closing the message and putting the phone back into the pocket furthest from Irene he went on, pushing his empty cup from him at length, “Are you rebranding as a detective? Should I worry?”

“A little worry might be a good idea,” Irene agreed. Sherlock noticed with puzzlement that she was studying the brass buttons of his coat, the sleeve length, the shade of navy, “What size are you? Medium? Maybe a small? I mean you’re tall but-”

“And in English you mean?”

“I think I’d make that coat look good,” Irene said decisively rather than explain herself. She finished her coffee with a smack of her lips, “I guess I could always have it taken in by a tailor if I had to.”

Sherlock gave a bored shake of his head.

“And I’m not rebranding so don’t worry,” she added. Before she stood up from the table she leant across and gave the detective a peck on his cheek. In the interest of staying perched atop his stool he didn’t attempt to lean away from the touch. Irene beamed full in his face before hopping down from the foot rest of her chair, “I was just saying: you’re not hot and tired this time, so what’s the excuse? Cold and wired on...” she sniffed at the man thoughtfully, “Wired on tea? Nevermind Sherly.”

The detective chose not to dignify the words with a response. Having waited a few minutes for Irene to head out towards Parliament Square he moved out in the opposite direction and took out his phone to idly scroll through his messages. To warm his fingers up more than anything else he sent off a message to another client, Mrs Trebor, and updated her on the whereabouts of her absent husband then proceeded to fire off a rather pointless hello to Mrs Hudson in another bid to get the woman to appreciate the fact that he was a man living in a shoebox on the edge of London and she was a land lady in his debt with rooms to let. As he selected the woman’s number from his rather lengthy contacts list his finger slipped, sending him scrolling down into the letter I s. The new entry of Irene x x x stood out by a mile.

Please leave the country. SH he decided to text to more thoroughly warm up his fingers. Seconds later there was a reply of Ha ha! x x x

**The third time (shortly after Irene Adler outsmarted Sherlock Holmes)**

Was at the Ritz during afternoon tea. Sherlock was there primarily to covertly study a man he had reason to believe was Mrs Trebor’s husband who, having transformed himself with a nose job, face lift and dye job was completing his new appearance with a young, beautiful and vacant looking male companion currently sat eating a scone across from him at one table. Sherlock went to get out his phone from his suit jacket pocket for a photo. His hand slid smoothly over the silk lining unimpeded by the bump of the phone quite simply because there wasn’t one. The detective gave a smirk. With a gesture he caught the attention of one waiter.

“Excuse me, could you invite over that woman there?” he nodded in Irene’s direction, currently sat admiring the golden glow of the room, its sweeping arches and cathedral-like ceilings, “The polished looking American with the smug smile. And a bottle of the Cuvée Dom Pérginon Rosé.”

With a somewhat puzzled nod the waiter complied; taking her time Irene strode the short distance across to Sherlock’s table to take her seat.

“You might have pushed in my chair for me Sherly,” she noted as she straightened out her black a-line skirt then rearranged the draping of her loose red silk shirt. Having noticed the waiter standing expectantly at his side Sherlock chose to ignore his companion and look to the man instead.

“I am afraid we have no more Cuvée Dom Pérginon Rosé at present sir.”

“Oh?”

“That’s okay,” Irene said sweetly to the waiter. She gestured with a wag of one finger to another waiter who was walking across the dining room with a champagne bottle and bucket. The waiter set the items down between Irene and Sherlock and poured each a glass at a gracious smile from the American. Sherlock considered the beverage as though suspicious of the possibility of poison.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Irene smirked about the lip of her champagne flute before taking a sip with a pleased little murmur, “You were just about to buy it yourself after all.”

“And instead you bought it?” he said dubiously before drinking a little himself. Irene selected a flaky looking pastry from the cake stand resting on the table and ate it delicately but messily, the crumbs of pastry sticking to her scarlet painted lips. Dabbing them away with a serviette she gave a shrug.

“They must have just gotten confused and, well, I won’t turn it down if they think I bought it.”

As though from afar Sherlock felt the impulse rise within him. It bubbled, much like the overpriced champagne, starting in the pit of his stomach and working upward towards his face and, at last, he could resist the urge no longer. He smiled grudgingly at the woman.

“And what do you want? Are you going to tell me how you did it?”

“What? Oh,” the woman’s lips formed a perfect little “o” of understanding, “Oh, you mean you want to know how I “outsmarted” you before?” she said, the term apparently amusing her.

“How you got lucky,” Sherlock opted for. Irene shook her head firmly.

“No, fair’s fair. I really whupped your ass.”

“Then tell me how you managed it,” he smirked, eyes keen.

“No. And I don’t want anything from you now either,” she replied and Sherlock couldn’t decide whether the words were perfectly honest or a perfect lie, “I was just in the mood for a spot of tea.”

“Heard of Sainsbury’s? Buy one get one free on boxes of Tetley tea bags currently.”

“Yes,” she batted his words away with one hand, “You really do flatter yourself, don’t you? You thought I was here just for you? It’s a small world Sherlock.”

“Indeed,” he muttered.

“So if you thought I came here to see you... what were you thinking I was going to do with you?” she said only to muse over her own question, studying the gleaming chandelier across the room and the refracted light it spattered on the walls, “Drug you, maybe? Drag you to a hotel room and leave you handcuffed to the bed frame? I’d leave the phone, just take your money and your clothes for the irony of it all,” she bit at her bottom lip in a poor impression of a young girl who knew she had committed a misdemeanour, “Would you like that?” she answered her question in a déjà vu inducing manner, raking her eye over the length of him and studying his shirt (royal purple today) before saying flatly, “I guess not.”

Sherlock felt himself tempted to retaliate this time but pressed his lips into a thinner line instead.

“I know a good tailor,” he spoke up when he had drained his champagne flute.

“Well, that’s wonderful.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “I mean... What size are you?” he took in the woman, “About an 8? A 10?”

“And in American that would mean?”

“It means you can have the damn coat, the Westwood,” he said as he refilled their glasses in a practiced fashion. He lifted his own and challenged her with a look to do the same, “As a truce. Stop fucking about with my phone. You’ll have me thinking you fancy me, the way you pull my pigtails.”

Irene let out a laugh unlike any Sherlock had previously heard from the woman: it was rather undignified, a little embarrassing and held a hint of a snort. It was natural, in other words. She tapped her glass against his.

“Okay - I can tell I’m upsetting you.”

“I’m on the verge of tears Adler. Besides,” Sherlock added, “I’ve seen this beautiful Belstaff-“ he sensed rather than saw the gleam in his companion’s eyes, “And no, you’re not getting that.”

Irene finished her champagne with a slurp that sounded awfully like the words, “Says you.”

(Sherlock’s previous coat, lovingly stolen and retailored by Miss Adler: http://www.my-wardrobe.com/vivienne-westwood/navy-wool-melton-epsom-coat-653420)


End file.
